


Light

by loversandmadmen



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Mild Smut, Post-Battle of New York (Marvel), Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:05:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loversandmadmen/pseuds/loversandmadmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>ThoughtfulConstellations insisted that I branch out and write something along the M-rating lines, rather than in my comfort zone of G/T. So I did, and now I need a G&T because this was stressful.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThoughtfulConstellations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoughtfulConstellations/gifts).



> ThoughtfulConstellations insisted that I branch out and write something along the M-rating lines, rather than in my comfort zone of G/T. So I did, and now I need a G&T because this was stressful.

It was still dark when Clint’s eyes snapped open. He was awake, in that no-going-back sort of way that is usually reserved for when he was on a mission. It took him a moment to realize that he was home, in his bare Brooklyn apartment, with a light breeze blowing in from the open window. His heart pounded as he adjusted and took stock. He sat up gingerly, still feeling the soreness in his muscles and bones from taking a pounding from a horde of space robot-alien things just a couple of days ago. All in a day’s work. 

He looked over to his left to see a mess of red curls, Natasha’s hair pulled back loosely and piled atop her head. She slept peacefully, a streetlamp illuminating her face. Clint watched her for a moment, appreciative of the sight of her sprawled out on his bed, all bare legs with big socks and swimming in one of his sweaters. Seeing her that way was a rare privilege, and Clint made sure he never took it for granted. He carefully rolled out of bed, moving slowly so as not to shake the bed and wake Natasha, and he made his way into his living area. The place always seemed bigger in the dark. 

Clint always took a while to wake up when he had the luxury of doing so, taking his time making coffee and splashing cold water on his face, existing in silence for an hour or so before putting in his hearing aids. This morning, as he brushed his teeth, he looked at his face in the dingy bathroom mirror, the dim, cheap light casting an odd yellowy glow over his skin. He looked like himself, but not like himself. It was like looking at an old photo he didn’t know had been taken. He felt oddly disconnected. He was going through the motions. 

Intellectually, he knew this wasn’t healthy. He knew he needed to face what had happened to him in New York and sort through it, needed to talk to Natasha about how he could never really hurt her, needed it to be clear beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had not been himself then, even though he knew she trusted him entirely. If anyone understood loss of control and how damaging it could be, it was Natasha. Still, though, just for his own peace of mind, Clint wanted to have the conversation. He knew that until he did, he would continue to feel this strange sensation of living just outside himself.

He made his way back to the kitchen as the earliest hints of gray dawn peeked through his broken blinds. Looking around at the mess he lived in, he shook his head a little. 

_Gotta get it together, Barton,_ he thought. _Move in. Grow up._

He hadn’t been in this apartment for long, but still. There were boxes taped shut, one of which had been used as a makeshift coffee table since day one. The place wasn’t dirty, exactly – Clint might occasionally lapse into some habits of questionable hygiene, but he tried to at least keep the floor swept and the kitchen relatively clean. It was just that it didn’t feel like home just yet, not with the clutter and the boxes and the laundry strewn about the floor. Maybe if he really moved in, did a little decorating, he’d feel more like himself. Maybe.

Clint didn’t hear Natasha sneak up behind him. He started just a little when she lay her hands upon his back and began to kiss down his spine. Chills erupted all over his skin, but fire erupted wherever her lips touched. He closed his eyes, relishing the feeling of going a little dizzy, just as he always did when they were together like this. Professionally, they almost never made contact apart from platonic little shoulder claps or sitting just a little closer than necessary. It made the thrill of being alone, being off the clock, being allowed to touch each other in whatever way they wanted even better. This was where Clint felt sure of himself, here with her, with the way she smelled like peppermint and soap and the way she felt so warm. 

They didn’t need to speak. At times like this, they almost never did. Clint turned to face Natasha, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her deeply, slowly, heavily, until they sank into each other. One hand in her hair, one wrapped around her waist, Clint drew her in as closely as he could manage, but it would never be close enough. Clint’s hands roved, gently, softly, caressing soft skin and old fabric. He felt her little gasps as he passed over her stomach, then inched his hand under the sweater. Natasha kissed him harder before he pulled away to kiss her neck, to let out his own half-gasp into her ear as she grabbed at his shoulders, clutching, almost clawing. 

Kissing her lips fiercely, Clint grabbed at Natasha’s legs and hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, allowing him to carry her. He moved with the clumsiness that comes with passion and an unwillingness to open his eyes while kissing Natasha, almost knocking into the doorframe as he made his way to the bedroom. They fell into the bed together, both breathless, neither caring. Time slowed as they pulled what little they were wearing off of each other without ceremony or ritual. Style didn’t matter, all that mattered was the feel of skin on skin, breath and breeze flowing over their bodies. 

Natasha bent one leg a little, signaling that she was opening herself to Clint. He ran a rough palm down the outline of her body before lightly brushing between her legs, moving in a way just shy of teasing, seeing her shuddering sigh as he began to slowly explore. He knew every inch of her and yet never tired of learning it all anew. Before he could go on like this for long, Natasha propped herself up and took his hand away, bringing it to her breast and kissing him again. They shifted so that Clint hovered above Natasha, holding himself up on one strong arm and bringing his free hand to her face. 

He held his hand to her cheek, then brushed her hair away from her forehead. He stared into her eyes for a long moment, felt his heart skip a beat. He ached when he looked at Natasha like this, ached from seeing something so beautiful, ached from the knowledge that he was allowed to hold her and touch her and be with her in any capacity, let alone this one. Finally, neither could stand the wait any longer. With a deep kiss, Clint lowered himself and slid into her, feeling the vibrations of her quiet cry.  


He stayed close to her as they began to move together, nuzzling against her jaw, kissing her whenever he had enough breath to do so. They moved slowly, pushing against each other as hard as they could before pulling back. Their muscles tensed more and more with every thrust, every roll of hips against hips. Their speed increased a little at a time, their desperate clutches becoming tighter and tighter. 

As their rhythm became steady, Natasha pulled herself up into a sitting position. Clint couldn’t help the strangled sound that escaped his throat at this change, and he adjusted himself accordingly. They were face-to-face, Natasha in his lap, grasping at each other’s backs, hair, shoulders, anything they could get their hands on as their movements became more and more frenzied. Shaky gasps turned to breathy moans, at first alternating and then overlapping, teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut and opened again, everything became a blur of motion and sensation. Suddenly, Natasha buried her face in Clint’s collarbone, digging her nails into his shoulder blades. Clint felt her tighten around him over and over, felt her muffled cries vibrate against his chest, felt her hot breath, and he could not hold back any longer. He lost himself completely in her, and every bad moment of his life disappeared momentarily as he allowed himself this ecstasy.

Both stunned, both weakened, Clint and Natasha came down together, came back to earth in a tangle of hot limbs and shaking hands. They collapsed back onto the bed. Natasha closed her eyes and stretched out, luxuriating in the lumpy pile of pillows and blankets. Clint propped himself up on his elbow and watched her. The sun was up now, and its light made its way into the room, illuminating Natasha. She opened her eyes, the sunlight bringing out the brilliance of her eyes and setting her hair aflame against the white sheets. She turned onto her side toward Clint, who lazily ran a hand from her shoulder to hip and back, just taking in the sight of her. He kissed her forehead and she smiled at him, then nestled in against him. They lay there for a long time, silent and content. 

Clint looked around his room. It was still a mess. He was still a mess. He still hurt and he still felt as though he had miles to go before he had a handle on himself again. But he knew he was here, and he knew she was here, and the world had become light again, and that was enough for the moment.


End file.
